


Rewrite, an 'On Deadline' story

by ConvivialCamera



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Journalism, Newspapers, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvivialCamera/pseuds/ConvivialCamera
Summary: It's been months since Libya, and Claire's trying to get back to work.





	Rewrite, an 'On Deadline' story

_Dec. 15, 2016_

“This is the last boarding call for India Air flight 144 to Mumbai. All passengers please proceed to gate B32.”

I sat with my head between my knees, passport and boarding pass clenched in my shaking hands. My fingers tingled, a cold trickle of sweat ran down my neck; the ball of ice that had been growing in my stomach since I took the assignment was suddenly threatening to choke me to death. I had to breathe. I had to get on the plane. Breathe, stand, board the plane. Breathe, stand, board the plane. Breathe, stand, board the plane …

“Ma’am.” I felt a warm hand on my knee, and looked into the kindly face of a flight attendant, who was now kneeling in front of me. “Are you well, ma’am?”

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp, get on the fucking plane.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m having a panic attack,” I gasped out, between wheezing breaths.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe …

“We need to close the gates soon,” the flight attendant said in a soothing voice. “Are you headed to Mumbai?”

I heaved in air. “Yes.”

“Can you get on the plane?”

I sat up, trying to make the crushing panic abate. I focused my eyes on the horizon I could see out the terminal windows, like I was fighting seasickness, and nodded. I could do this.

I picked up my bag, and stood up, slowly adjusting as I felt my blood rush through my veins. I took one step, and then another, and then after a surge of nausea everything went black.

“Lady Jane. Wake up, girl.”

I cautiously opened my eyes, and Joe was there.

“Fuck. What happened?” I was in a makeshift medical room, and clearly not en route to my assignment in India.

“You passed out after saying you were having a panic attack while trying to board a plane,” Joe said. He was clearly trying not to scold me.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I groaned, rolling onto my side. I felt weak, like everything had been drained out of me. “I have to call my editor.”

“I already did,” Joe said calmly. I was clutching my hands to my chest, and he covered my cold, clenched fingers with his. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll take you home.”

Home. Joe meant his home, not mine, because I no longer had one. I had never really had one. I spent my childhood globetrotting with my uncle; I thought I had found home with Frank, that fuck, but that never really was one either. I felt a surge of sadness and frustration boil over and I burst into hysterical, gasping sobs.

“Oh, Lady Jane, come on, don’t cry,” Joe said, trying to comfort me.

“Shut up! Don’t look at me!” I curled up into myself like a shrimp, covering my face with my mass of hair. My curls stuck to the tears on my cheeks. This made Joe chuckle, to my outrage. “You have Gail. And the kids. And your studio. I can’t even get on a fucking plane. Who’s going to hire a photog who can’t get to an assignment?”

“Someone who doesn’t need you to go far,” Joe said. “You know you don’t have to go to Timbuktu to work, right?” He smoothed some of the hair out of my face. I let it all pour out of me: the fear, the anger and rage. I carried so much of it with me since Libya. I was still working on letting it go.

When the sobbing had been reduced to a snivelling, I sat up and shook my hair out. I wiped my eyes on the hem of my shirt, leaving mascara smudges.

“How long was I out?”

“Not long. About 15 minutes.”

“You never left the airport, did you?”

“Nope,” Joe said. It wasn’t the first time, after all.

He carried my gear bag and held me by the elbow, guiding me out of the airport and back to the car.

_Feb. 7, 2017_

I ended the call and and threw the phone on the bed. “YES! HA! YES! YES! YES!” I jumped up and down, excitement overcoming me for the first time in … I couldn’t remember.

“DID YOU GET IT?” Joe hollered up the stairs.

“I GOT IT!” I flew out of the guest room and down the hall, flying down the staircase and into Joe’s home studio, where he had just put down some new prints. I launched myself at him, and he spun me around once, and then put me down solidly on my feet. “You’re looking at the new senior photographer at the Leoch Times.”

Joe beamed at me. “I knew you could do it, Lady Jane. And Gail’s going to be thrilled.”

“Yeah, thrilled I’ll be out of her hair and her house.”

“She loved having you, and you know it.”

“Yes, I’m sure living with two traumatized, fucked up photogs has been just a walk in the park for her.”

Joe just looked at me.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get the kids and the wife and celebrate.”

Joe, Gail and I had champagne, and poured apple juice into fancy cups for Lenny and Josie.

“Claire, I wouldn’t have made it through these last eight months without you,” Joe said, holding up his glass in salute. “And vise-versa.” I laughed. It was true. “The Times is lucky to have you. And it’s only a few hours upstate, not the other side of the world, so it’s perfect.”

“The pay’s shit, but you are always welcome in whatever hovel I find.” I tipped my own glass, and took a swig.

It was time. And I was ready.


End file.
